Liberations of a White Litany
by Wit Unraveled
Summary: Spoilers for TLG - For death may act the silver-stringed muse to gods and poets, but it cannot touch the brilliance of a life that overcomes it. - Series of unrelated drabbles set during and immediately after Artemis's absence. Multiple character focuses and genres.
1. Of Brave Things and Bright Things

_For Kelsey._

* * *

Christmas was always his favorite holiday.

The weather doesn't seem to pay much mind to the state of the world, as the following days are as bright and cozy as a Dublin winter can be. In the absence of wedding rings or the spirit of home and hearth, it's merely a silhouette of good fortune, and the world itself seems so exhausted that even the irony is reduced to a faint, wavering ring. It helps little and changes less. Days after the fact, snow still rains down like volcanic ash, coating the grounds with powder so fine he could pretend, if he'd only close his eyes.

(But he can't close his eyes anymore, not without seeing the battlefields, the wars with those grotesque caricatures of the creatures in his storybooks, the blood –_ so much blood_ – )

Christmas was always his favorite holiday, but this year it isn't Christmas, it's a funeral. The intersection of dates is mere coincidence, as it happens, one he won't even notice for days thereafter. Odd how that should play out, considering he's had the holiday emphasized with bright, decorative scrawl on every calendar in the manor since September. _First Christmas with Arty!_

But for now such thoughts are the heaviest sin (and Arty always did say that the heaviest thoughts would make him a sinner), and he stands in the garden with Beckett's fingers intertwined with his own, locking him there as though he should float away, should simply vanish from the earth just as suddenly as their brother his other hand he clutches a string of chrysanthemums, but crushed in his hand though they may be, his grip on them is comparatively weaker. He wonders idly what's tangible and what isn't, anymore.

In death Brother looks the boy he never was in life, rest smoothing the lines from his forehead and the tension from his shoulderblades. _He could be sleeping. _He struggles with the thought. The traces of the soul that once hung over his mind suggest that to die nobly is a heroic thing, an _enviable _thing – and yet Mother still cries when she thinks he isn't listening, Father's eyes are sunken and hollow, Beckett has slept in his bed ever since...

…and Artemis is still dead.

He moves forward when it's his time to do so, dropping the chrysanthemums into the claustrophobic little casket and brushing one shaking hand over Brother's – _pale, lifeless, stark, decaying _– cheekbone before stepping back again. A slow, blue-September sort of ache begins to bloom in his chest, bleeding through his body and leaving him thoroughly rain-soaked. Beckett lets out a little cry and buries his face in Myles' neck.

He doesn't like Christmas, anymore.

* * *

**A hastily dashed-off love note to last night's sob-fest over TLG. Hope you enjoyed it!**

**(Note: Naturally, as this collection is set to include drabbles from both before and after Artemis's... revival, as it were, not all of them are going to be angsty. Some will be happy, some sad, some contemplative, etc.)**


	2. Myriad

**Some Artemis and Butler friendship to make up for my hideous inability to update lately - see the bottom for the full A/N. Until then, enjoy!**

* * *

War brings with it a certain sense of brilliance; it is not beautiful, but it captures the eye.

He thinks of this as he strolls the grounds, arms crossed over his chest in some feeble attempt at warmth. The gardens are immaculately kept, and the transition between blazing autumn and ice-capped wonderland is as smooth as ever, but white is white and that is all it will ever be. The flush at his cheeks and the scattered bristles of dark green serve only to underscore the monotony.

There's a dark smear leaning off a ways, back in the direction of the manor, and he approaches it only when he's ready to make his way back to home and hearth. There is no idle conversation, nor is there any conversation at all. Artemis nods and Butler straightens stiffly; multiple series of gestures, entangled and interlocking like parts of a finely-wrought machine. It's all cogs and gears, and they do their jobs nicely, but there is no conversation.

There hasn't been for some time, now.

* * *

Mornings go the same as they always have: coffee waiting by his breakfast (the mug tilted outward to accommodate his preference for his left hand), the newspaper waiting freshly-pressed and perfectly folded on the table (there is not much left for him but to _read_ about the world, at the moment), the laptop on the table already whirring (he has never had much patience for rebooting). His shoes click on the kitchen's hardwood floors, his coffee cup tinkering lightly no matter how much care he takes setting it down, and Butler waits in a state of silence that is not so much tense as it is too formal.

The kitchen is a lovely shade of red – Mother insisted on repainting it upon his father's return – but all the same, it isn't quite the right shade. He's seen the firefight smear of a hurtling shuttle, star-coursing poisons like Stygian steam, sparks flinging off tiny bullets that caused explosions like manmade stars, and Mother's paint swatches do not quite compare. The world seems cloaked by a greyscale gauze. He does not miss the bite of Siberia or the burn of bullets grazing his shoulder, but he does miss the color – or perhaps it's simply that the proximity of death brought with it a renewed sense of aliveness.

Easing the mug from his lips, he unfolds the paper only to pause at the sight of the headline: _How Long Have We Been Fighting? _And it's surely some political drivel, but his head falls a bare degree to the side; it is not the first time he speaks into the ever-present silence hanging between himself and Butler, but it's the first that Butler almost seems inclined to answer.

"You know, sometimes it does seem like a while."

* * *

He is no stranger to the idea that death is an imminent thing, even now; he's woken enough times to the sting of his hand threaded between his teeth to remember what it's like to feel himself slipping ever-faster over the edge. Still, he considers it as he stares out to the morning, fingers thrumming on the cover of a childhood favorite. And he wonders.

Because he was not so much at war as he was war itself, blazing and brilliant and burning against the sky. In the midst of it, he had called it greatness, but the brightest do burn the most quickly, falling so fast until there's nothing left but the puff of an empty lighter. He thinks of words he's read a hundred times over in his inane school studies – _"Our greatness lies not so much in being able to remake the world - that is the myth of the atomic age - as in being able to remake ourselves." _– or of how Pippin sacrificed his one perfect act to live on with Catherine and Theo, and he wonders how much of him has really been lost with the renouncement of battle as opposed to how much of him has been lost to that aching, stifling silence.

When dawn breaks over the horizon in a sleepy flash of rose and gold, he's gotten his own coffee, leafing through that same book he's read a dozen times over when there's a quiet rustling at the doorway.

He glances up and his mouth twitches – not quite a smile, but there's a sense of newness in his eyes that's been absent for some time, now. "Butler," he says, tone soft and businesslike, "I do think it's time I returned to my old self."

It's the first time in months that the smile at Butler's mouth has been genuine, and it lines his face in unfamiliar ways, like the crack of stiffened leather. "We'd be lucky to have you back."

* * *

**My apologies for the slowness of the update! Life took a sudden turn for the blindingly busy, and as such I haven't had much time to write. The play I've been in wrapped up production yesterday, so my schedule will be clearing up dramatically.**** The following updates should come much, much more quickly, and naturally requests are always welcome (just as reviews are greatly appreciated).**

**Also, if you caught the Marina and the Diamonds and/or the Pippin reference(s), kudos to you. (:  
**


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